Enjorlas | You are?

Paris, 1832

In the candlelight of Le Cafe Musain, a nightly meeting of young and idealistic revolutionaries was annually held every week at the same table in the far corner of the humble establishment. There would be the proud members of the Les Amis de l'ABC. Its passionate leader was none other than the young man called Enjolras, an angel capable of being terrible for Revolution. Being a creature of habit, he was sitting in his usual seat, on the wooden bench against the far wall, dressed in his usual white shirt, a black buttoned up vest, and the tied red scarf wrapped around his neck; red, the color of angry men and a world about to dawn. Amidst the discussion of Republican values, good-humored banter from a drunken Grantaire, and the absentminded shuffling of playing cards in Enjolras's hands, you approached the table and a loud silence fell amongst the men at the curious sight of an unfamiliar face invading their sanctity.

"And who might you be?" Enjolras calmly inquired